


Tretår

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Coffee, Coffee Shops, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Svenska | Swedish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She looks up one morning and realizes she's in trouble."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tretår

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A season 1, stand-alone bit of nothing. Probably just after "A Chill Goes Through Her Veins" (1 x 05) or at least in that neighborhood.

 

 

Tretår (Swedish)

n. A "tår" (as well as a tear) means a cup of coffee.

A "påtår" is a refill of said coffee.

A "tretår", is the second refill, the "threefill."

* * *

 

She looks up one morning and realizes she's in trouble.

He's just across a kitschy table cloth from her. It's embroidered with navy and orange horses. They're squared off and blocky. All awkward lines, but pretty in their way. Rich colors and careful needlework to render the garlands of flowers ringing their long, upright necks.

That's the setting. It's absurd, but she looks up and realizes she's in trouble.

She remembers the strangest things about the moment. Details crowd in, all arranged, as if she's handled them a thousand times. As if they're old, fond memories, yellowed and curled at the corners.

But it's happening now. Right then, and the paradox startles her.

_Now._

_Right then._

She's in trouble and it's _absurd_.

She's just been rolling her eyes at some tangent he's spun off on. Some double entendre he can't resist. His gaze flicks her way. It snags with hers for a moment, then spirals off into something safer.

_Safer. Not safe._

That thought is like the first bell of alarm. It goes with the feel of stitches under the pad of her thumb, the pleasant scratch of starch on her skin. It goes with spreading, languorous warmth and the strong desire to stay put. _Strong desire._

She doesn't remember what he's talking about. She _won't_ remember, a while from now when she finally crawls into bed, the shutters latched to keep the daylight where it belongs while she goes in search of sleep. A few hours anyway.

She knows she won't remember the substance of it at all, but her eyes drink in the details, brand new and curled at the corners. Another paradox.

She'll remember his animation. The movement of his hands, economical and constant, and the lines of his face, even more expressive in his weariness. She'll remember the tug of his mouth to one side in a grimace and the twitch of his lips back to center, because he never frowns for long and there's more than one thing to be learned from that truth.

He never frowns for long, but the sudden around-the corner headlights of a car sweep over their shadowed corner and the knock-off gold of it picks out the shadows and deep-carved lines of his face. He never frowns for long, but there's a seriousness to him. There's weight and substance, even in the way he performs for her and everybody.

She'll remember him like this, exhausted with a long night, but bursting out the other side the way he does.

_The way he does_.

The alarm sounds louder now. She's not supposed to be in the habit of this. She's not supposed to know what he is and isn't like, _especially_ not when dawn is still struggling with itself. She's not supposed to have phrases like that drifting fondly along like fingers trailing in calm water. Not at all.

"How did we get here?"

He breaks off abruptly. Mid-sentence. She knows that, though she couldn't tell anyone who asked what it is he's just been saying. Mid-sentence, and she knows _why_ she knows that. She knows the way he punctuates the end of things. The rock of his head to one side so that his ear tips toward her. The way he waits for her to push back. They certainty that she _will_ push back is written in the confident lift of his eyebrows. The light behind his eyes.

There's none of that now. He breaks off. _In medias res_.

He's still and silent. _Arrested,_ and the word makes her lips curve. He catches her. He catches the smile and she can see the mental tick mark. All the times he's caught her in it—not just _any_ smile, but this one that's new and old and kind of all about him—and this _isn't_ supposed to happen.

He's not supposed to look right and familiar and _welcome_ in weak morning light across a kitschy table cloth. Counting off smiles and somehow needing more than both hands for it.

"Castle."

"We walked." He looks at her for some kind of acknowledgement that she's satisfied, though it's an answer to something she definitely didn't ask. She's still, though. Fixed in place, and there's no chance he's in the dark about why. "From the precinct," he adds anyway. He's moving on, hurried, as if he can hide the way his pupils blow wide and the tinge of heat on his skin. As if she's not in the business of catching people in their lies. He shifts tactics. "Are you ok?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, though. He raises one hand. He leans out into the aisle to catch the eye of the lone waitress who seems to resent the work they're making for her. It's full morning now, but she seems to like their previous arrangement. Her steps are heavy and slow. She doesn't speak, just raises an eyebrow at him.

He grins up at her. " _Tretår._ "

He gestures to his own cup. To the other, nearly empty across the kitschy table cloth. To hers.

" _Tretår,_ " the waitress says, shifting the vowel sounds pointedly. Correcting him.

" _Tretår,"_ he echoes, trying for better. Looking up though his lashes and playing at contrite, but the waitress just scowls and turns on her heel. " _Vänligen,"_ he calls out after her.

"Three-fill," she says to herself. But not _quite_ to herself. She's tired and _alarmed_ and too much is spilling out on to the kitschy table cloth. Too much, and he's grinning at her. Nodding, delighted.

"Great word. That and _vänligen_ —thank you—and you've exhausted my Swedish." He thinks about it. "Non–pancake related Swedish."

_"Three,"_ she says more emphatically. A little too loudly and then she's blushing because the waitress is back.

"Three," she confirms, tipping the pot expertly into her cup, then his, and not losing a drop. She slaps the check down on the table in a no-arguments kind of way.

"No word for four-fill." He snatches it toward him, wary and narrow eyed, like he expects a fight. But she's still. Staring. _Arrested_. "What?"

He touches his fingers to the corner of his mouth like there might be something there, but it's just coffee. They've just been having coffee.

"How can it be three?"

She stares from the cup warming her skin to him. He's watching her now, close and intent. Wary in a different way, and there's color in his cheeks again. Light behind his eyes, and she knows she'll remember this, too. She'll remember this with the covers bunched at her waist and her fists pressed hard against the flutter in her stomach when sleep won't come.

"Sneaks up on you, doesn't it?"

He smiles, wide and warm. Not a grin now. Not cocky, but quiet and charmed and a little disbelieving, like he he knows. Like he's just looked up and realized.

He's in just as much trouble as she is.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading when this is nothing more than me throwing my own brain a life-line from the depths of grading.


End file.
